


Forever

by Buttsuoka_Rin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Class Issues, Edwardian Period, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-14 07:30:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttsuoka_Rin/pseuds/Buttsuoka_Rin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>John chuckled at the mental image of a scrawny, wild-haired Sherlock jumping into the water. When he turned around to tease him, whatever he was going to say died in his throat and he swallowed; Sherlock had stripped himself of his shirt and he was far, <b>far</b> from scrawny.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock is 21 and John is not quite 18. Their friendship and love blossoms in secrecy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forever

**Author's Note:**

> Not exactly underage. It originally started as 18/20, but I bumped the ages a little further apart because I have a weakness for age difference in fics. This is set around 1913, when homosexuality was seen as a criminal offence in England.
> 
> Bonus points to anyone who can guess where my inspiration for this fic came from. Just a warning for unprotected sex towards the end.

“But the boy is seventeen, Sherlock, for goodness’ sake-“

“Eighteen next week, Mycroft.” Sherlock scoffed and stood up, whipping his jacket from where it lay draped across the back of his chair. “Now if you’re going to continue to be so bloody _obvious,_ I’ll be going.”

He strode out of the room with a flourish. Argument over, then.

Mycroft sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Twenty-one years old and still behaving like a child,’ he thought with deep regret, standing and migrating over to the drinks cabinet. Mummy would be furious if she found out about her younger son’s rendezvous with _him:_ John Watson, groundskeeper of the Estate.

Not to mention the fact that if anybody else got wind of this, both Sherlock and John could be facing imprisonment; Mycroft may have been more open minded than most, but English society was still disinclined to accept human nature.

Pouring himself a tall brandy, Mycroft Holmes sank back down into his wingback chair and prayed for Sherlock’s safety.

*

“C’mon Sherlock, keep up!” John laughed and gripped the taller boy’s wrist to tug him along. They were pushing through trees and tall grass, Sherlock having to squint in the darkness in case he tripped. John, however, was as agile and familiar with the grounds as ever, and navigated them both safely until the band of trees parted and the grass flattened down to a smooth pathway.

“Where are you taking me, John?” Sherlock panted, shaking his wrist free of John’s grip. He slotted their hands together instead.

“Boathouse. We’ll have it to ourselves and nobody’s gonna hear us.” John was suddenly thankful for the darkness as he felt his ears burn. “Not that we’re going to be making a lot of noise, I just-“

Sherlock quietened him with a kiss, grinning against his lips.

“Lead the way, John.”

The blonde boy beamed and pulled Sherlock after him and down to the lakeside. A small wooden boathouse sat attached to an equally small boardwalk and docking bay for the little fishing boats. 

“It’s not much, ‘specially for gentlemen like you.” John smiled and pulled a set of keys from his breeches pocket. “But it’s like a home to me.”

“You know how I feel about my status.” Sherlock huffed and pushed his way in after John, nudging the heavy door closed with his boot. “Besides… You are my home now.”

John stopped in his tracks and straightened up, his blush now visible in the dim light of the gas lamp. 

“You don’t mean that.” He said quietly. Nudging a cushion aside with his foot, John lifted his eyes to Sherlock’s face. The man’s brow was furrowed in confusion, so John continued. “I heard you and your brother talking. I’m nothing more than a phase, right? A passing fling until you find a… A nice, comfortable wife. You’ll move to the city, start a family…”

“John Hamish Watson.” Sherlock swooped forward and cupped John’s face, tilting it up so he was forced to look at him. “Don’t you dare listen to a word my brother says. Ever. He is an arrogant, selfish, gluttonous swine and though he may be keeping our relationship a secret, he’s a bloody arse.”

John lifted his hands and placed them over Sherlock’s. “But you’re a Holmes. Even if I was a girl, people wouldn’t accept me. Hell, my kind wouldn’t accept _you_ with all your money and position.”

“We don’t need people, John.”

“But it’s England-“

“Then we’ll move to France, or Italy. We won’t be seen as criminals there.” Sherlock removed both his hands and John’s, and wrapped his arms around the smaller boy’s shoulders to tug him close. “I don’t have to follow in my father’s footsteps. Mycroft is doing quite a job of that already.”

“And what about your mother?”

Sherlock shrugged. “What about her? She needn’t know. I can still write and phone her.”

John sighed against Sherlock’s chest, but he was already relaxing. After a moment, he lifted his head and looked up at his lover. “Do you mean that? All of that?”

“Of course, John. I love you.” And he did, more than anything or anyone in this world. "We're in this forever."

Butterflies erupted in John’s tummy. Grabbing Sherlock by the collar of his crisp shirt, he pulled him down and crushed their mouths together in a fierce kiss.

“I love you too.” John whispered against Sherlock’s lips, kissing him again. He barely registered Sherlock pulling them both down until he was flat on his back with the taller boy kneeling over him, pressing soft kisses against the pulse of his neck.

“Forever.”

John’s eyes fluttered and his hands gripped at the older boy's biceps, fingers scrunching up the fabric of his clean, crisp shirt.

***

It had been six months since their friendship-turned relationship started. Six months neither of them would swap for the world itself.

It had started off on a rather mild day. By then John had been looking after the grounds for about three months, though he'd only ever seen the Holmes's a handful of times and never made anything more then fleeting conversation with them, usually Mycroft or Lord Holmes, and oftentimes about his wages or duties. As far as Sherlock went, John had barely even glanced at him. 

And then there was the day he came down to the stables to begin his duties, when he'd spotted a curly-haired young man brushing down a brown Shire horse. John hadn't seen that horse before.

"Oh, good morning, Sir." John greeted, setting down a bucket next to a bag of oats. "I wasn't expecting anyone to be down here so early, Sir."

"Good morning." The younger Holmes' cool eyes landed on John, a ghost of a smile tugging the corners of his lips. "New addition for the stables. His name is Apollo. Could you hand me that mane comb?"

John stepped closer and plucked the mane comb from the wall rack, handing it to Sherlock and stroking the horse.

"He's a magnificent breed, Sir." John laughed, once, and picked up a tail comb. "Apollo... Means strength in Greek, doesn't it?"

Sherlock seemed a little surprised at that; a stable boy and groundskeeper knowing Greek words and their meanings? 

"Yes actually." His pale hand smoothed down Apollo's mane after each stroke and the horse snorted gratefully. "Apollo, one of the most important and complex deities of ancient Greece. You know about Greek Mythology, then?"

"Just a bit. My father used to tell me stories that his father told him. Sort of passed down through the generations, y'know?" John smiled wistfully, eyes growing distant for a moment, then he shook his head and continued brushing Apollo's tail.

"What is your name?" Sherlock asked, dropping the comb into a small basin and dusting his hands.

"John Watson, Sir." He saluted and smiled, Sherlock joining in. 

"Call me Sherlock, please."

Of all the staff in the Estate, John was the only one who had actually initiated conversation with Sherlock. Usually they just kept to themselves- at least the house staff did - and weren't spoken to unless given orders. Whatever it was about John Watson, Sherlock liked it. He seemed so... Ordinary. Yet there was something about him that made Sherlock yearn to find out more of.

"I trust Apollo will be in great care if I leave him in your hands?"

"The finest, Sir- Sherlock." The younger boy smiled bashfully. He turned into the tack room to find a bridle and upon his return, Sherlock was gone. Not a trace of him left bar the basin and comb. John frowned, staring down the cobbled pathway, but he was nowhere in sight. Shrugging, he fixed up the horse (Shire horse actually, seventeen hands tall) and guided him down into one of the empty stable rooms to be fed.

He would come across Sherlock soon again, no doubt.

As it turned out, it wasn't long at all. The very next day Sherlock came back, this time decked out in full riding gear that was fitted like a second skin. John swallowed, turning his head away and adjusting Apollo's saddle. Why was it suddenly warmer than before?

"I'll be in the arena for an hour, John. Could you set up the jumping poles in the meantime?" John simply nodded. Glancing back once, he could have sworn he saw the older boy smirking. He gave his head a shake and continued on.

It continued daily; Sherlock would appear at eleven a.m in riding gear, John would escort and keep watch of him in the riding arena, and they would clean, groom, and feed the horses afterward. A friendship was soon formed between the two, one which seemed to cause raised eyebrows from other members of staff.

John ignored them. Sherlock was more important.

There were always little things too; fingertips brushing as they passed over combs and brushes. Late night talks in the barn loft. Falling asleep with one's head on the other's lap.

It was all very innocent but it made John feel warm inside nonetheless.

-

Things progressed from friendship late one Summer's evening. It had been one of John's rare half days and the sun had been stiflingly hot all day. So much so that it meant cutting hedges in the middle of the day had to be done topless. And of course, Sherlock Holmes was by his side. Well, lounging on the grass really, but you get the idea.

"John." John stepped down from the ladder, wiping sweat off his brow with his arm. He looked far older than his seventeen years let on, with a lean stomach and slowly developing muscles around his upper body.

"I'm almost done. Then I'm off. What?" He plucked a few stray leaves from his hair and flicked them in Sherlock's direction, watching as they floated down in the dead heat and landed in his curls. The older boy stood and shook his head free, scowling just a little at the amusement in John's face.

"I was going to suggest we cool off. Now, preferably."

"Oh yeah? But I still-"

"Leave the hedges, John. Nobody's going to take notice, at least not yet. And..." He paused, face breaking into a grin. "You're under my orders after all."

John snorted and rolled his eyes. "Yeah yeah." But he was already pulling off his gloves and reaching for his shirt. Long fingers curling around his wrist stopped him in his tracks. 

"You don't need that. Come on, follow me." Sherlock's hands didn't leave John's wrist, tugging and guiding him down through trees and flowers in the 'private' section of the gardens. John had never been down this way before.

"Where are we going, exactly?"

"There's a pond just down here. Mycroft and I used to come down here when we were children to cool off in Summer. Nobody used it anymore."

"Oh." John's heart started to beat just a little bit faster. He was used to being alone with Sherlock of course, but they were usually alone when sitting on haystacks or when John was working. To be led somewhere that was essentially off limits to staff sent a little thrum of excitement through John. 

They continued walking through the trees, passing by an ancient looking tree swing and ducking under a wooden, ivy-covered archway before Sherlock stopped.

"Here we are." Sherlock released John's wrist. The pond wasn't massive, but just large and deep enough to allow for people to bathe and swim in. A tree branch jutted out overhead and attached to it was a long, thick rope. "I used to swing across and jump in. I'm not sure how strong that rope is anymore, though, considering it's been a good twelve years or so."

John chuckled at the mental image of a scrawny, wild-haired Sherlock jumping into the water. When he turned around to tease him, whatever he was going to say died in his throat and he swallowed; Sherlock had stripped himself of his shirt and he was far, _far_ from scrawny. 

"Well? Don't just stand there gawking, John, get undressed! You can't go swimming in your clothes."

John gave himself a shake and cleared his throat. "Y-you want me to go swimming?"

"No, John, I just brought you down here to watch _me_ cool off." The older boy huffed, though it wasn't in annoyance. More like amusement. "Yes I want you to go swimming. It's no fun by myself."

John had expected Sherlock to strip down to his underwear, or at least roll up his trousers. What he didn't expect was for Sherlock to get stark naked and toss his clothes in a haphazard pile to the side. The sight of him, all lean muscle and pale, smooth skin, made John's skin prickle with heat.

He was beautiful.

Wetting his lips, John averted his eyes and shyly began to unbutton his breeches.

John had never been naked in front of anyone before. Not in this sense at least. When he was younger, he used to have to share his baths with his older sister. That didn't last too long, of course. He stepped out of his clothes and kicked them aside, shuffling on his feet a little awkwardly. When he finally dared to look up at Sherlock, he met his eyes and neither said a word.

And then, after what seemed like ages, they broke into a fit of giggles (started by John and soon followed by Sherlock) and were bent-double breathless by the time they calmed down.

"...Swim?" Sherlock offered, jerking his chin towards the water. 

"Fuck it. Why not."

"Swearing in the presence of a Holmes, Mr. Watson? Tut tut." Sherlock teased, grinning and slipping into the water when John took a playful swipe at him. He let his body get used to the cold water, and then dived underneath, emerging a moment later with wet curls stuck flat to his head. John wasn't at the edge anymore.

"John?"

"Over here!" Sherlock turned and looked up at John. The boy was standing up on one of the raised banks, both hands braced around the thick rope. "One... Two... Three!" John made a run for the edge and then swung off, closing his eyes and letting his body fall cannonball into the water below. He caused an almighty splash and came up spluttering.

"Bloody hell! I've never done that before!" He whirled around and grinned at Sherlock. "For twelve years old it's still quite sturdy."

Sherlock splashed him and John cursed. 

John splashed back.

Their splashing game became more of a competition as it progressed, each trying to catch the other out when they weren't looking. Once or twice they slipped and eventually called a truce when both of their splashes collided in mid air and backfired, causing them to cough and wipe their eyes.

Sherlock was still being sneaky, though. When John was busy brushing his hair back and shaking it free of water, Sherlock had swam around and ducked under, having John believe he was going to swim to the other side and back. What John hadn't expected was for Sherlock to swim in front of him and send an almighty wave of water towards him. 

He would have fell backwards if Sherlock hadn't caught him around the waist and hauled him back up, laughing at John's outburst of curse words.

They stopped when John realised just how close to Sherlock he actually was. His arms had come up to wind around the taller boy's neck, breathing growing shallower and face burning with colour. He wasn't alone. Sherlock's cheeks were pink. John fully expected to be pushed away and their little incident to be laugh off or forgotten about.

Sherlock, it seemed, had other ideas.

His hands tightened around John's waist and pulled him closer so they were pressed flush together, every body part touching beneath the water. Neither of them were sure who initiated it, because it all seemed to happen in a blur.

Their lips met, soft at first, but growing insistent and hungry. Sherlock quickly took control, coaxing John's lips open and letting their tongues dance. John moaned into the kiss, hands wandering into Sherlock's damp curls as he pushed his hips up against Sherlock's, causing him to gasp and tip his head back a bit.

"...What are we doing, Sherlock?" He asked. They were still embracing and fully aroused, cocks brushing under the water. 

"This." With that, Sherlock claimed his lips again. The kiss this time was softer, gentler, and Sherlock's hands were stroking up and down his back. They broke apart again a moment later, panting and flushed in the late afternoon heat.

"I didn't know that you knew." John admitted, letting his hands drop to Sherlock's shoulders as they put a bit of distance between them. 

"I had a feeling. Looks like I was correct." Sherlock smiled and John groaned, dropping his head to rest against his chest.

"We should get out. What if we're caught?"

"We won't be." Sherlock pressed a small kiss to John's hairline before stepping back and letting him go. "But you're right. I'll e expected for dinner soon anyway." He pulled a face and held a hand out. John took it and they made their way to the edge, stepping out and dressing quietly.

John felt like he was floating on air for the rest of the evening.

-

Mycroft found out in a rather embarrassing way. He'd suspected something, though he thought Sherlock's disappearances every day were the result of sneaking into the town to meet secret lover.

Stumbling across them snogging around the back of the house told him he was far from the truth. To make matters worse - for Mycroft - Sherlock's hand was... _rubbing_ at John's crotch, pulling some quite delightful noises out of his mouth.

After an awkward clearing of Mycroft's throat, a loud outburst of anger from Sherlock, and a face akin to beetroot on John, Mycroft had sat the two down and made them explain themselves. Sherlock supposed he should have been glad it was Mycroft who found them and not their father or mother, god forbid. He would have been shipped away to live with some distant relative and John would have been fired from his job.

Or sent to prison.

In the end Mycroft was convinced that what they had wasn't just lust. In Sherlock's defence, they'd never actually done anything more than kiss, sometimes grope. But never sex. Sherlock wanted to wait until John was definitely ready.

***

The boathouse was filled with whimpers coming from John. Sherlock had sucked a dark pink lovebite just below John's jawline. His hands were slowly unbuttoning John's shirt, plucking the buttons open one by one until the top of John's chest was exposed.

"John..." Sherlock sat back and shifted until he was straddling the shorter boy's thighs. John opened his eyes. They were pupil-blown, blinking slowly up at his lover. 

"I'm ready, Sherlock."

"John-"

"No, no more waiting. I am sure." He managed to sit up and flip them over so Sherlock was under him and _he_ was the one doing the straddling. "I want to do this. Please."

Sherlock wet his upper lip with the tip of his tongue. He wanted this badly, and so did John. After a moment of thought he nodded.

"Alright. Lie on the bed." He watched as John grinned. He was kissed quickly and then John was climbing off his lap, pushing himself off his knees to clamber onto the narrow bed. 

They undressed quickly, clothes being dumped onto the floor next to them, and then Sherlock was on the bed and crawling over him. Grabbing John's hands, he pinned them down and bent down to kiss the younger boy slowly and deeply, tongues sliding against each other and teeth nipping gently. 

John exhaled when Sherlock's hand gripped the base of his cock. His eyes closed and he pushed up into the touch, pulling back and biting his lip when Sherlock began to stroke him. His other hand slid up to John's cheek, holding his face gently while his thumb caressed his cheekbone.

"Do you have anything to make this more comfortable?" Sherlock asked, his cock already half hard from just touching John. 

"Vaseline." John nodded. "It's all I've got. I don't think wheel oil would be a good alternative." They both laughed, John sighing when Sherlock reached over to the little beside cabinet. In the very bottom drawer there was a little, barely used tub of Vaseline.

"Remember to tell me if it's too much. It will feel a bit strange at first." John nodded and watched Sherlock as he dipped his fingers into the off-white jelly, smearing it around his fingertips. He left the tub open beside him for when he needed more.

He gave John's cock a few more strokes for good measure, gathering up some pre-cum from the tip to make his fingers wetter, and then dragged them down to John's anus. The tight ring of muscle fluttered against the press of Sherlock's middle finger. Sherlock murmured for John to relax and let his body sag. He eventually coaxed him open enough to slip the tip of his finger inside.

John stiffened, breath hitching at the unfamiliar feeling. He exhaled raggedly and squeezed his eyes shut.

He hissed when Sherlock stopped at the first knuckle.

"Are you okay? Does it hurt?"

"A little... Just feels bizarre." John took a moment to adjust to the finger, and then gave Sherlock a nod. "I'm fine."

Planting a small kiss onto John's lips, the older boy pushed his finger in further. He drank in the sight of John beneath him, skin flushed and head tipping back, lips opening and breath coming in short, quick bursts. 

The tight heat around his finger went straight to Sherlock's groin. Pulling the finger back slowly, he began to then thrust up, slow and short at first, just working John open for him. The expression on John's face was a mixture of pain and arousal, but his cock hadn't dwindled; he must be enjoying this.

Taking his finger out to slick it up with more Vaseline, Sherlock heard John mumble something, spreading his legs even further as he did so. This time Sherlock used two fingers. He gave John a brief warning before he inserted them, his tight virgin hole even tighter with the extra girth.

"Sherlock..." John gasped, turning his head and pushing it against the pillow. He moved his hips a bit, pushing back against the older boy's fingers. It didn't hurt as much, the pain slowly giving way to a weird sort of pleasure. Pleasure that soon increased when Sherlock crooked his fingers and dragged them over the raised fleshy mound.

And then John's whole body jerked as if electrocuted, eyes flying open and hands gripping the sheets.

"Oh, oh fu-Sherlock!" 

"Did that feel good?" Sherlock massaged John's prostate in slow circles, nudging against it every so often to make John jolt a little.

By then John was writhing, body arching up into Sherlock's fingers and rotating around, his moans and whimpers muffled by Sherlock's mouth.

"G-god, I want you." John swallowed. He was fully hard by now, pre-cum beading from the tip of his cock and leaving a little wet patch against his bellybutton. 

Sherlock gently removed his sticky fingers and sat back, fisting his own erection to give himself some relief. He reached for the tub once more and, with both hands, made his cock at lubricated as possible. For a moment he paused, just staring down at John. John, who had given himself entirely to Sherlock. John, who had become not only his first friend but his first _love._

John, who he was about to make love to. 

Swallowing, Sherlock guided John's knees up and then around his waist. He lined himself up but did not push in yet. Instead, he bent forward and kissed the younger boy sweetly, gently.

"I love you, you know." He whispered against those kiss-reddened lips. 

"I know." John replied, hands resting on Sherlock's arms. "I love you too."

That was enough. Smiling, Sherlock pushed inside. He groaned. Despite having worked John open as best he could, he was still tight around him. Slowly, he managed to push in so he was buried to the hilt, breathing harsh and ragged against the skin of John's neck. John groaned, fingers digging just a little into his flesh.

"...Okay?"

"Yeah- M'fine." John managed. "P-please just move."

Sherlock canted his hips back and then rocked forward, John's head tipping back to expose his neck. His ankles dug into the small of Sherlock's back, as if keeping him in place. 

They fell into their own slow rhythm, which eventually turned into quick, sporadic trusts, their moans and breaths mingled. Kisses were shared, rushed and sloppy and broken with gasps of names. John was rolling his hips up to meet Sherlock's, arms now wound tightly around his neck as the other boy held him close, whispering sweet nothings into his ear and hitting his prostate every time.

In the dim light of the boathouse the two of them moved as one. Sherlock was close, so close, and it wasn't long before he felt the familiar tightening of his balls and heat blooming in the pit of his stomach which spread to his fingers and toes, making the latter curl against the bedsheets. His knees were starting to cramp up. John was moaning freely now, ranging between high pitched and then guttural, altogether needy.

It was John who came first. With a choked cry, he pulled Sherlock impossibly closer with his hands and feet, head thrown back and body writhing in ecstasy. His inner muscles clamped and fluttered around Sherlock's cock. Cum soaked their stomachs in a sticky, white-clear mess. When his cries tippled onto a pitch of too much, Sherlock paused, inclined his hips back, and pulled his cock free.

It bobbed, still achingly hard, and Sherlock reached down to finish himself off with his own hand. It didn't take long and soon enough he was groaning, forehead bent down and body shivering with little aftershocks, and then he collapsed down next to John.

"I... I..." John tried to find words but his brain and body were still reeling from his orgasm. He twisted his head and met Sherlock's arm, leaning into it and slowly getting his breath back.

"Yes." Sherlock finished for him. He blindly reached out for John's hand, wrapping it in his own and bringing it to his lips. "Shh, don't talk. Just sleep, John."

The younger boy mumbled something incoherent, nodding and trying to snuggle close. The movement made him stutter and hiss. 

"M'going to feel that t'morrow..." He groaned, ignoring Sherlock's soft chuckle as he guided him to lie against his chest face down so his bottom could take a break.

"You'll be fine."

"Sherlock?" John managed to open his eyes and look up at his lover. "Will you promise me something?"

"Anything." Said Sherlock, pushing a hand through John's damp hair.

"Promise me you'll never leave. That we'll go away somewhere just like you said." There was something so vulnerable in John's voice that pulled at Sherlock's heartstrings. 

"John, I'm not going anywhere. I told you, we're in this forever."

"Forever." John smiled. That was confirmation enough. He trusted Sherlock with all his heart, loved him with all his might, and wasn't going to give up.

Forever.

He liked the sound of that.

**Author's Note:**

> Vaseline is not a good lube substitute. I don't know if they had proper lube in 1913.
> 
> In case you haven't guessed, I got inspiration from Maurice. Seriously, read the book and watch the film and die because of the Edwardian and slashy glory. I love the Edwardian Era with a passion.
> 
> Written with a fever/head cold/the sniffles. Mistakes are die to my dead-like state.


End file.
